


This Love Thing, Let Me Do This Right!

by dasyatidae



Category: Inception (2010), Jonathan Richman (Musician) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ari and Mal are in a band together, Arthur and Eames are sloppy and silly throughout their 20s, F/F, Fluff, Friendship, Jonathan Richman, M/M, Oakland, San Francisco, adorable friendship fluff, as usual, but they figure stuff out eventually, drinking and sobriety, going to shows, listening to records, shifting pov, shoutout to Boston too because JONATHAN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasyatidae/pseuds/dasyatidae
Summary: Arthur and Eames finally meet at a Jonathan Richman show.





	This Love Thing, Let Me Do This Right!

**Author's Note:**

> I am indebted to diemondgrimm for the enthusiastic beta! The premise of this fic is perhaps painfully niche, but she has given me the confidence to say that I think you might enjoy the story even if you're not familiar with Jonathan Richman's music. <3
> 
> This is for the 'public displays of affection' square on my bingo card! (Even though I totally didn't finish my line this year, eek.) 
> 
> Title is from the Jonathan song of the same name. :)
> 
> Trigger warning for themes of/mention of (averted) date sexual assault. More detailed trigger warning in end notes.

 

  _I used to joke that I’d probably meet my soulmate at a Jonathan Richman show—if I could only ever take my eyes off Jonathan._

 

 

**WE’D BE LIKE CHARCOAL CRISPY BITS FOR THE NEXT BILLION YEARS, I GUESS**

**Oakland, 2013**

 

**Eames**

“Eames!” Ari calls, running up behind him and pulling his hood over his head. “We’re going to get tacos and find Peter, pick up the Tecates he supposedly smuggled in for us, okay?”

Eames wrinkles his nose and shrugs off both the hood and her tiny hands. “Smuggled in how?” The door security had taken their jobs way too seriously; they’d pawed through Eames’s messenger bag and made him dump out his water bottle and Gatorade. Now he’s sitting at the top of the park’s crumbling cement amphitheater sipping a sugary five dollar lemonade and listening to PANGEA wrap their set.

Mal shrugs, an elegant dismissal of the plebeian mechanics of the act, but Ariadne brightens. “Hey,” she says, grinning up at the taller woman, her new bassist and utterly obvious crush, “One time I smuggled in a whole six pack on my body.”

“ _No._ But how?”

“You know, between my boobs and in my scarf and coat. It wasn’t that hard.” The bluff achieves the desired effect of making Mal examine Ari’s chest and small form with mystified curiosity.

Eames rolls his eyes. He would whinge about how the glamorous and important role of wingman he’d been promised had immediately morphed into the totally unnecessary role of third wheel, but Ari is cute like this, all enamored and sparkly, and, honestly, Eames is here for the music.

“Anyway, you coming?” Ari asks.

“Nah.” Eames waves the crinkled festival schedule at them. “Don’t want to miss Jonathan.”

He watches Mal’s pretty forehead crinkle. “Jonathan who?” So far today, she’s bested them both with her knowledge of the different bands. Eames thinks it must pain her a little to ask.

Ari answers. “Jonathan Richman. He’s like this cult singer-songwriter who used to hang out with The Velvet Underground and sing in a punk band—that punk band from Boston, The Modern Lovers.”

“Oh! They do the ‘[Road Runner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gy88-5pc7c8)’ song that’s always on the jukebox at Eli’s.”

“Sure. So Jonathan got tired of the punk thing for some reason and started singing these super twee songs instead—like about flowers and buzzing mosquitos and stuff.”

“Not _just_ about flowers and mosquitos, Ari, jeez,” Eames bursts in, unable to take it. “You’re making him sound like Raffi.”

“Hey! Please tell me that you are not dragging Raffi. ‘Baby Beluga’ was, like, the anthem of my childhood.”

“No one is dragging Raffi. I’m just saying, Jonathan isn’t like Raffi. He’s got a different thing going on,” Eames explains. “His music isn’t for children, it’s for everyone.”

“Wait till you see. I think it’s one of those things you either get and love or don’t. He spends a lot of time dancing and, like, gazing soulfully into the eyes of the audience.” Ari giggles.

“That sounds strange,” Mal declares.

“Oh, they totally love it. They’re gazing right back the whole time.” She’s still giggling. “Eames is front and center, exchanging puppy eyes with Jonathan. Just wait and see,” she says again. “He’s playing when? Twelve? I bet we can grab our provisions and make it back in time.”

“Eames?” It’s clear from Mal’s baffled look that this _puppy eyes_ promise in no way tallies with her view of him thrashing around a mosh pit or a mess of dancing at a Thee Oh Sees show. “Is he a very attractive man, this Jonathan?”

Ari begins to full-on laugh, anticipating Eames’s indignation; in the three years of their friendship, they’ve had this conversation a few times—okay, like every time either of them has brought someone new around to get stoned and listen to records at Eames’s place. When he’s stoned, Eames invariably puts on _Rockin’ and Romance_ and (maybe) cries (just a bit) during the finale track “[Now Is Better Than Before](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqQznJtTz3o).”

So yeah, Ari knows it’s coming when Eames exclaims, “ _Mal,_ it’s not like that at all! He’s like my dad. No, he’s a way better person than my dad. Like a billion percent less of a deadbeat. It’s not about sex appeal. My love of Jonathan is _totally true and pure."_ The Gregg Araki quip is met by the usual happy sigh from Ari; she makes no bones about the fact that Gregg Araki-isms are the way to her small queer heart.

“Okay, dork. Well, we should go,” Ari says, letting herself place a hand on Mal’s arm to tug her in the direction of the food trucks. Eames watches Ari hesitate and then relax into the touch as Mal throws an arm around her shoulders. “Do you want anything?” Ari asks Eames distractedly. At least, he thinks she’s talking to him. If not, Eames is about to be hell of impressed at how bold she’s getting with her new lady love.

“Nah, thanks, mate,” Eames says after a beat. He’s distracted too: Jonathan has climbed onto the stage to do a sound check.

Ari and Mal disappear without further ado, and Eames grabs his bag and skips down the steps of the park’s cement amphitheater seating to get as close as he can to the makeshift stage.

Jonathan and his drummer Tommy appear on the stage, and Eames finds himself beaming, light on his feet, as the musician meets his eyes for a moment while scanning the crowd. Jonathan has his hand to his heart as they cheer him, and his soulful brown eyes are filled with gratitude. Eames can’t pull his eyes from Jonathan to take in his neighbors in too much detail, but he can hear and feel their congruent hum of excitement and appreciation as Jonathan begins to sing.

 

When Ari appears at his side again sometime later, she makes him jump by pressing a cold beer against his bare arm. “Hey, what’s wrong?” she asks, rightfully shocked to see his expansive happiness replaced by dismay.  

“Eames, I was promised puppy eyes,” Mal says.

“That fuckwad over there,” Eames mutters. “He’s been heckling Jonathan.”

“That guy?” It’s a small venue, so the fuckwad in question is just a stone’s throw away from them, one tier down, and it’s clear that Ari has spotted the guy by the change in her voice, the incredulity that’s crept in to displace the concern. The scrawny hipster with his long, messy, dark hair and punked out denim jacket currently does not look like much of a firebrand, it’s true. He’s actually stopped shouting and trying to toss his Doritos at the stage and has dropped into a trembling crouch. It looks like he’s muttering to himself, his head clasped in his hands. The ground around his Converses is scattered with crushed orange crisps and PBR cans. “That guy is a mess,” Ari concludes. “He was doing _what?”_

“He was yelling at Jonathan, right before you showed up—stuff like, ‘You suck! and ‘Everything is terrible!’’”

“Aw, gross. Did Jonathan hear him?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t go on for very long. Everyone just ignored him, and then he folded up like that.”

“Looks wasted,” Mal observes. “Poor guy.”

Eames shakes his head. “Yelling at Jonathan though. I don’t know. Who the fuck does that?”

Unperturbed, Jonathan prepares to sing about the sun. He tells a story about a solar flare of such magnitude that it would have fried the Earth had our planet been elsewhere in its orbit. “We’d have been like charcoal, crispy bits for the next billion years, I guess."

Eames watches a curly-haired skater dude push his way through the crowd to kneel by the sad hipster, lift him to his feet, and lead him away.

   

“I don’t _get_ it,” Mal says way later, “but I get it now, I think, this Jonathan thing.” They’re rambling home tipsy, Eames leading them in another chorus of “[Back in Your Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n57XdJ4NKI8).”

“Good! One of us! One of us!” Ari chants, slinging her arm around Mal’s shoulder. Over the course of the day, she seems to have become comfortable with the idea that Mal welcomes her casual touch. Mal reels Eames in on her other side, and they all sway together. Eames grins and sings louder.

 

**Arthur**

Text message from Yusuf to Arthur:

Hey! dude, are you ok?

???

Arthur?

dude let me know when you get this

 

Text message from Saito to Arthur:

Arthur, Dominic just came by the house to “pick up his stuff.” He seems to believe that you were going to put said stuff in a box inside the front door this morning before attending a music festival. Am I right in assuming that you have not yet prepared the box of stuff for Dominic? Or is there somewhere else I should look for the box?

Dominic says he will wait.

Arthur, I will tell Dominic that he should return for his stuff at a later date and time which he should arrange with you.

He informed me that he has deleted your number and has requested that I contact him when the box of stuff is ready. I hope this is an acceptable plan.

Arthur, I spoke with Yusuf.

We are concerned about your whereabouts and general wellbeing.

Are you okay?

 

 

Arthur, group text to Yusuf and Saito:

,

Im cool

I’m ducking drunk

Ducking dom ducking sucks

fukk everything you know? I ate him

Can you come get me

I’m in oakland sorry

 

*

 

When Jonathan sings…

_[When we refuse to suffer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgNE_V6DR_k), _

_When we refuse to feel,_

_The pain is still there._

_We just haven’t faced it._

_If we refuse to suffer, if we refuse to pine,_

_We’re just frozen pizza and some screw-top wine._

_…_ Arthur crushes his bag of Doritos in his fists. He doesn’t want to feel his pain, he doesn’t want to be suffering—he’s suffered enough in his life about real shit, fuck—he doesn’t want to suffer about Dom fucking Cobb fuck fuck fuck that no good spineless dickface.

“No, you SUCK,” he yells at Jonathan. He doesn’t want some old dude lecturing him on how to feel his stupid fucking feelings. “No, YOU suck,” he shouts.

Then he curls into himself and is very close to the ground, suddenly. Because he is a frozen pizza, very drunk and very sad, and he supposes that’s where stupid frozen trash pizza belongs: in the dirt, on the ground.

 

 

**I DON’T WANT TO GO BACK TO THE OLD WORLD**

**San Francisco, 2014**

 

**Arthur**

“You really love his music.”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” Arthur says, gesturing with his beer toward the empty stage, unable to find _precisely_ the right words. In a few moments, the man himself, Jonathan, will appear, and Arthur’s words won’t be necessary. Jonathan will speak for himself. Still, it’s frustrating; he likes to be precise. Arthur’s had a tumbler of whiskey already, and the _feelings_ are coming to him more strongly than the words, but he tries: “At the beginning of the set, when he first starts strumming his guitar and looking out at everyone—it’s just so, ugh, I can’t describe it. After all these years, it just makes me so happy.”

“Huh, well. It’s quite the endorsement. I’m intrigued and—and glad you invited me.”

Arthur exhales heavily, blowing his hair from his forehead. He sets the beer slightly away from him on the bar and begins fiddling with the coaster instead of with the glass.

His date reaches out and places his hand over Arthur’s—his palm clammy from clutching his own sweating drink—and the gesture is more about shutting down Arthur’s fidgeting than the pleasure of touch, it seems.

“Want to order another?” Nash asks. “Before the show starts?”

Arthur looks at his beer. “I think I’m good.”

“Let me buy you a drink,” Nash says, all chivalry for Arthur and smiles for the bartender. “I hear they make great Dark and Stormies here.”

“Rum, no thanks. I guess I’ll have a Sazerac,” Arthur concedes, since Nash already has the bartender’s ear, and the place is pretty busy.

Nash hands Arthur his cocktail, and he clinks his glass against Arthur’s.

“Cheers,” Arthur says, though his cheer is starting to feel forced. Arthur’s overcome with this sense of prickly ennui; he’s impatient, maybe bored, of this date already.

“What are we cheers-ing to?” Nash wants to know.

“Jonathan, of course.”

Because date or no date, Jonathan is playing, and Arthur hasn’t seen him in over a year. (That time last summer barely counts, ugh.) Jonathan is playing, so it’s a special occasion kind of night.

Nash wants to keep their seats at the bar—“It’s not a _show-_ show—he’s a singer songwriter, right?”—but Arthur insists on standing toward the front—or at least deep in the middle of the crowd, amidst all the like-hearted individuals who are dancing and laughing and singing and calling out and yearning toward Jonathan when he sings,

_[I don’t want to go back to the old world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0FtlFvcesTM). _

_I don’t want to go back to the mysterious, elegant old world_

_Of camaraderie and elegance—and love of torture—_

_And love of stuff like thumbscrews and guillotines and stuff—_

_It was a mixed bag._

Nash gives up trying to whisper to Arthur during songs because Arthur is unashamed to shush him, unembarrassed when he refuses to look away from the stage; he’s among his people, here, and he’s not afraid to make his priorities crystal clear. Besides, if Nash isn’t rendered speechless by Jonathan’s brilliance, he and Arthur don’t have a future beyond the end of the set.

“Guitar!” Jonathan calls out, raising his guitar to the microphone and strumming it with vigor, then soft as velvet. “Real soft guitar this time!”

Nash disappears and reappears with another round. Arthur’s kind of relieved, actually; if they’re both clutching drinks, Nash’ll have to be a little less handsy. Normally, Arthur would tell him to knock it off, but they’re surrounded by people, and it feels weird. Arthur doesn’t want to make a scene, he doesn’t want to _deal with_ his date; he just wants to enjoy the show.

What the hell, Arthur thinks, sipping his drink, letting the whiskey sting his tongue, a pleasant burn. One more Sazerac won’t hurt.

 

**Eames**

“What’s going on?” he asks, distracted. He turns slightly toward Ari but keeps his eyes fixed on Jonathan, who has put down his guitar and stepped to the front of the stage to shimmy with his maracas while “Tommy Larkins on the drums!” keeps the beat.

“It’s Mal—she’s being a cowboy.”

“A what?”

“I mean, her vigilante, do-gooder powers are in full force tonight.”

“You’re being cryptic.” Ari hip checks him, breaking the spell and throwing off the little shuffle he had going. He gives up and looks over at her. “Can it wait?” he pleads, twisting his lips into what he knows is a fairly irresistible pout. “You know his sets are only like an hour these days.”

“It’ll just be a minute. We really need your muscle.”

“Oh, lovely.”

Ari takes his proffered sleeve and pulls him toward the exit. They twist sideways to scoot past the bouncer, who’s perched on his stool in the doorway, tapping his boots against the scuffed vinyl floor as he watches the show.

“What’s going on?” Eames asks again into the greater quiet of the outdoors, but the question is immediately unnecessary. He sees what’s up: one doorway down, a less feel good show than Jonathan’s is playing itself out for the entertainment of the man selling hot dogs from his little grill, a knot of smokers, and a few passers by on the way to the Latin place next door that shows all the football games on big screens.

Mal looks mighty tonight in a little black dress, ripped tights, and docs, her curls tied up from her face with a black and pink queer anarchy bandana. She has planted herself between two dudes and is soundly chewing out the one she has pinned to the wall. One of her hands is in his face, pointing rudely, and the other is pressed behind her against the second guy’s shoulder. The second guy is a thin brunette in a disheveled button-up, slumped and listing a little, almost as if Mal’s glancing touch is the only thing that’s keeping him upright.

“Ari?” Eames rounds on his friend and sees that she’s lost all forward momentum in admiring Mal, who is so mad she might actually be speaking in French. She is beautiful, yes, but Eames wants to shake Ari till she snaps out of her reverie and tells Eames what the fuck is going on—or better yet, finally asks Mal out. A year of silent pining is a long time, and Ari’s excuse that she’s afraid of ruining the band before they’ve even put out their first album wears thinner and thinner every time Ari weepingly endures Mal hooking up with somebody else.

Ari thwacks him. “We came out to bum a smoke, and she found that deeb getting frisky with his date, who’s, like, hammered.”

Eames grunts disapproval and narrows his eyes at the greasy haired twerp Mal’s cutting down (very effectively, without need of his “muscle,” just saying).

“He was all over him in the doorway there, and the guy was clearly embarrassed,” she continues. “When he tried to leave, Romeo was like trying to _shove_ him into his Uber. It was fucking gross.”

“Arsehole,” Eames agrees.

“We were going to say something anyway, obviously, but the drunk guy must’ve heard Mal’s accent because he literally turned to us and asked if we could help him in perfect French. He’s adorable.”

“So now Mal is his champion for life, is what you’re telling me.”

“She’s, like, adopting him, yes. Our new gay son.”

Eames snorts, but his attention is fixed by the details of the scene, just in case it turns ugly. Luckily, the creepshow looks like he’s about ready to slink off into the night, like he wouldn’t raise a finger to Mal, but Eames is a be-ready-for-the-worst kind of guy; he’s spared himself more than a few blows over the years by never trusting douchebags further than he can throw them. He and Ari approach the threesome, and as Ari is pulled to Mal’s side by the usual magnetism that governs her life, Eames is left with their damsel in distress.

Eames intends to put a reassuring hand on the guy’s shoulder and lead him away from the mess toward the curb, but the guy is worse off than Eames anticipated, and Eames gets a drunken armful of him instead. “Easy,” he says into the guy’s hair as strong, lithe arms fasten around his neck, holding tight. “Hey, let’s get you your own cab, yeah?”

“I can’t. The show’s not over,” the guy says, and he looks so earnest, craning his neck to peer at the bar door and then up at Eames with wide, worried brown eyes.

“You’re here for the show?” Eames shuffles them back toward the venue, where there are more people, more lights.

“To see Jonathan,” the guy enunciates carefully.

Eames smiles. “Nice to meet another fan. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty more chances to see him.”

“He plays here every year.”

“Every summer.” Eames has his phone out behind his new buddy and is pulling up a rideshare app. “Okay, love, where do you live?”

“Not you too,” the guy sighs, his delightful dimples melting away in a grimace. “You seemed nice _._ ”

“It’s for the cab, not for me,” Eames explains.

“Oh. Are you going to take me home?”

“No.”

“ _Wait_ , are you British?”

“Yes.” Eames plants his feet wider and tries to shuffle the guy a little more upright; he seems dead set on sliding down Eames’s chest. The guy’s still looking at him, his face thoughtful, considering Eames; he’s drunk to the point where his expressions have lost all subtlety and are writ large on him like on a cartoon. _Hot or not?_ his drawn eyebrows and bit lip wonder.

“Wait, is Nash going to take me home?”

“That fuck? Hard no.”

“Oh good.” He slumps in relief—right into the crook of Eames’s neck. His breath on Eames’s skin sends an out of place shiver down Eames’s spine.

“Darling,” Eames says, jostling him just a bit—he’s not going to fall asleep here on Eames, is he?—“You have to tell me where you live. C’mon, love.”

The guy mumbles his address.

“Alright, good man.” After a couple tries, squinting over the guy down at his screen, Eames gets the address typed in right. “Three minutes. Do you have a phone? Is there someone waiting for you at home?”

“Yasoof—Yasoof and Sayto—my friends,” he says into Eames neck. “Phone’s in—in my pocket.”

“Unlock it for me? Let’s give them a ring, hm?”

The guy reels back and scrambles for his phone; he nearly falls over, and Eames barely keeps them both upright. This guy is strong. He’s like a fucking koala. “Sorry,” he says, and he hands Eames the phone, already ringing.

“Yasoof?” Eames pauses, flips the phone around, and tries again. “Yasoof?!”

“Uh…Arthur?”

“Hey!” apparently-Arthur yells, and Eames nearly drops him _and_ the phone. “Yusuf! I’m at the Jonathan show!”

Eames tries valiantly to wrap Arthur in one arm and hold the phone to his ear with his other hand. “ _Yusuf_ ,” he says with a sigh, “I’ve got your friend, ah, Arthur, here, and he’s had a few drinks. I called him a Lyft and just want to make sure someone’s there when he gets home. He might need a hand.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then, “Got it. Yeah, I’m here. Is he okay?”

“Yusuf! I’m not coming home! I’m going to watch the rest of the Jonathan show!”

“No need to shout, love. Okay, Yusuf, I’m going to let you go. He should be there in, like, ten minutes.”

“Hey, thanks, man.”

“Yeah, cheers.” Eames disconnects the call and, fuck it, just slides the phone into Arthur’s back pocket. He’s not trying to cross boundaries, but the guy is glued to him like a high school slow dance and is wriggling like a fucking octopus. “Your car should be here soon,” Eames says, a prayer as much as a prediction. Springing a boner right now would be totally inappropriate.  

“Are you going to come with me?” The guy—Arthur—asks again.

Eames lifts his eyes skyward. God, when was the last time he got this drunk? Not just drunk, but _this_ drunk, obliterated? “No,” he says patiently. “I’m just calling you a cab. You’ll be okay. Yusuf’s going to be there when you get home.”

“Hey!” Ari says, trotting over with Mal. Awful date dude is now nowhere to be seen. “Wow, you guys got cozy.”

“Arthur, are you alright?” Mal asks. She puts a hand on his shoulder and gives Eames a _look_ like she’s ready to dive into round two.

“I’m not manhandling him,” Eames tells her. “He latched onto me like this. Jesus, Mal.” Arthur laughs against his neck, and Eames exhales slowly through his nose; ignore the sensation, he tells his body. “I called him a Lyft—it should be here, like, any second—and his friend’s at home waiting for him.”

“We can’t put him in a car with a stranger all by himself,” Mal says, affronted.

A white Honda Civic pulls up to the curb.

“It’s okay, Mal,” Ari says. “We can just take him and come back.”

“That’s the car.” Eames nods in the direction of the sedan.

Mal climbs into the back, and Eames attempts to pour Arthur in after her. “Bye,” Arthur says, clutching the collar of Eames’s t-shirt.

Eames gives his fingers a rub until they loosen, and he lets go, tumbling back against Mal. “Take care of yourself, darling.” Eames squeezes Arthur’s reaching hand and then pushes it decisively back into the car. “Do it for Jonathan.”

“You’re not coming?” Ari asks from the front seat.

“I’m going to catch the rest of the set. You two have got this, yeah?”

Mal snorts, like _obviously._  

“His friend’s name is Yusuf. Have Arthur call him back if you need him.” Eames shuts the car door.

When Eames gets back inside, the crowd is whooping and roaring. The encore is over. Eames catches one last glimpse of Jonathan disappearing from the stage.

 

 

**LA FIESTA ES PARA TODOS**

**San Francisco, 2015**

 

**Arthur**

“So where is he, this date guy?” Arthur sips his seltzer and leans back against the cushions of their booth. He’ll stand up and move to the front again once Jonathan and Tommy come back from their break, but he’s glad his friends showed up early enough to snag one of the Make-Out Room’s few tables. Ari is still healing her sprained ankle, so she’s been gracious about guarding their heap of bags and jackets while Arthur and Mal dance and flit around the bar.

“You’ve met him, you just don’t remember him,” Mal says for the hundredth time. Their feet have easily entwined underneath the table, and she kicks him lightly as she leans forward to steal from his drink with her straw. Arthur’s never had a friend like Mal before; it’s been a year, and he still can’t believe his luck. She’s beautiful in the red light of the bar, her hair braided on top of her head, one of Ariadne’s oversized plaid shirts thrown on over a vintage slip that she’s wearing as a dress. Arthur wants to make a comment about the shirt, but he spots Ari limping her way back from the bathroom and swallows his curiosity. (Besides, if something had finally _finally_ happened with Ariadne, Mal would have texted him immediately.)

Instead he says, “You know, I feel like a Jonathan show is all wrong for a set up.”

“What? But Jonathan is so romantic.”

“Who can have eyes for anyone else when he’s playing though? A date during a Jonathan show is, like, superfluous. Like, out of anywhere on the planet a person might need or want a date—at a wedding—”

“A museum?”

“On a plane?” Ari slides into the booth, fitting into the space at Mal’s side like it’s meant for her. “Wait, are we listing places to hook up?”

Mal turns to her and laughs. “We’re talking about whether it’s appropriate to bring a date to a Jonathan Richman show.”

“I’m just saying that a Jonathan show is a uniquely okay place to be single, to be alone even,” Arthur insists right as Ari says, “Oh, so we’re talking about Eames.”

“I don’t really need to be dating right now,” Arthur continues.

Mal reaches for his hands with her lovely, manicured ones and squeezes them. Sometimes, when there’s not a table between them, Mal will capture Arthur’s hands and kiss them in a moment of excitement. (Arthur really loves her, _totally true and pure_.) She says, “Then don’t date, _cherie._ We will just enjoy some music between good friends. That, I think, is the most Jonathan sentiment of all.”

“Cheers to that.” Arthur clinks his seltzer against her cocktail and Ari’s beer.  

“I’m glad that’s where we’re all at, actually,” Ari says, making a face. “Because I know we promised you the long-awaited Eames encounter…”

“But?” Mal prompts, frowning.

“But I don’t think he’s coming.” Ari is twisting and tearing a napkin into pieces on top of the table.

“But Eames loves Jonathan!” Mal gasps. “Is he okay? Has he been kidnapped? Lost his memory? Fallen into another dimension?!”

“He’s right outside, actually, but he’s on the phone with Robert. He’s been on the phone with Robert for, like, an hour.”

“Oh. Oh no.” Mal makes a face too, then gives Arthur an apologetic look that Arthur wants to shrug off. What does he care? She says, “I guess he’s not as single as we thought—”

“As we _hoped—”_

 _“_ As we have _longed_ for—”

“At the moment, anyway,” Ari finishes.

“See, this is the kind of bullshit I don’t want any part in,” Arthur says, gesturing with his glass. “Dating someone, arguing with them on the phone. Good friends, good atmosphere, _Jonathan._ These are the important things. The things I need.”

Jonathan and Tommy climb back onto the stage. “They’re starting,” Arthur says. “I’m going to stand up front again.”

“Go,” Mal encourages. “We’ll hang here.”

 

**Eames**

“Hey.” It’s Ari, a more tentative Ari than usual, standing in front of him again, hands in her pockets.

“You’re missing the show,” she says, louder this time, so he can hear her over the onslaught of Robert’s complaints. It’s clear she’s not going anywhere. She intends to puncture the safe bubble of privacy he’s painstakingly imagined so as to be able to have a down and out row with his maybe-still-boyfriend on a fucking public street. Eames had thought he might be able to placate Robert with a few words, a quick check in—easier than getting going swapping texts. Now it’s— _fuck_ —going on eight forty-five, and he’s been out here for over an hour.

“Robert. _Robert_. I have to go, alright? Ari wants to talk to me for a minute. No, she’s right here in front of me. Look, I’ll call you back in a minute, alright?” Eames ends the call, swearing.

“This is why Jonathan is the only man I will ever love,” Ari declares. “Are you okay?”

His phone starts buzzing. Robert again. He fights the urge to hurl the stupid thing into the street. But what good would that do? “Sorry,” he says to Ariadne. “You should probably tell everyone I won’t be able to make it. I should probably…” He holds up the phone, shrugging.

Ari catches his arm before he can pick up the call. “Eames, you don’t need to answer that. Just come inside for a song. One song.”

“I have to answer it, Ari. I can’t just—“

“He can wait fifteen minutes, until the show is over. Come on.”

She pulls him forward. He’s been sitting on the steps of the building next-door, in the very alcove where Mal told off that creepy dude last year, actually.

Eames hesitates at the bar threshold, unsure, until he is caught by an unexpected yet familiar tune.

Ari cocks her head, similarly arrested. “That’s not—he’s not—he couldn’t be—”

“He’s playing ‘Hospital,’ oh my God.”

“[Hospital](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blJldvAPwpQ)” is their favorite from Jonathan’s early career. It’s from so long ago, Eames never imagined he’d hear Jonathan play it live.

Ari wraps her fingers around Eames’s, so they’re holding his phone together like it’s a Portkey; gently, she helps him hold the button until the buzzing stops and Robert’s face on the screen disappears.

They step inside the bar, flashing the bouncer the stamps on their wrists, and push down the aisle past the bar, to the edge of the crowd.

Jonathan sings:

_When you get out of the hospital_

_Let me back into your life_

_I can’t stand what you do_

_I’m in love with your eyes_

_And when you get out of the dating bar_

_I’ll be here to get back into your life_

_I can’t stand what you do_

_I’m in love with your eyes_

Eames is riveted by Jonathan, and he finds himself singing the words softly under his breath: “Oh, and I can’t stand what you do, sometimes I can’t stand you—and it makes me think about me, how I’m involved with you—”

“This is a sign,” Ari stands on her tiptoes to whisper, but he pretends not to hear.

Outside, when the song is over, she hugs him tightly. He hasn’t turned his phone back on yet, but the presence of Eames and Robert’s unfinished business hangs between them ghost-like. He waits for Ari to lecture, to pep talk, to insist. _Fuck Robert, put your phone away for the night, come have fun with your friends._ Maybe at her insistence Eames could find the spine to just call it, say _no more, sorry Robert,_ and move the fuck on.

“I’m here if you need anything, you know,” Ari says instead. She shifts from foot to foot, ready to slip away. Ready to give him exactly what he has asked her for: space to keep fucking up. “I can’t believe we heard him play ‘Hospital.’ That was so good.”

“It was perfect,” Eames says against her hair. “Thank you. I needed that tonight.”

 

**Ariadne**

Ariadne watches Eames slouch off down twenty-second street, mid-argument the instant he puts the phone to his ear. She kicks a reflective sliver of green glass—nothing pretty, just part of someone’s broken beer bottle—from the sidewalk to the street and sags against the brick wall, sinking her hands into the pockets of her large canvas coat. The twang of Jonathan’s guitar drifts around her, chords that remind her of being a kid, doing homework cross-legged on her bed while Dad plucked at his guitar, watching _The Price Is Right_ in the other room. She could stay out here, she thinks, and bum a smoke off one of the hipster dudes checking her out, trying to decide how approachable she is now that her maybe-boyfriend has vanished.

She finds herself gazing at the exact spot where Eames held Arthur that night Mal pulled him into their lives. If she squints, she can picture Eames and Arthur exactly as they were. As if they really are still standing there entwined. As if she can see through the fallacy of linear time, into the layer cake of encounters that have occurred on this very ground. Arthur isn’t _only_ holding hands with Mal across a table, and Eames isn’t _just_ stuck, miserable, on the phone with his dickwad boyfriend. They’re also _right here_ , in front of Ari, embracing like old lovers, waiting for a cab.

Eames hasn’t been around much this year, what with the whole Robert thing. Even if Robert lived in the Mission instead of in L.A., it would have been like that, she knows: Eames on boyfriend island, unreachable. Robert wants Eames’s heart and soul. It’s not exactly malicious. He doesn’t know another way to love, Ari has decided, from Eames’s stories and the few opportunities she’s had to meet and observe him. She hates him anyway.

It really seemed like they were over when Eames showed up at band practice last week. He was supposed to come out tonight and meet Arthur for real. And Ari had thought maybe—maybe—with the four of them out together, Arthur would want to hold Eames again, no air between them, leaving sufficient space between Arthur and Mal for Ari to finally take her hand on the dance floor. To finally kiss her while they’re curled together in the corner of the bar, whispering into each other’s ears to be heard over the music.

She’s not jealous of Arthur. It’s just that things were better before she had to constantly tell herself _not_ to be jealous of Arthur. Her own insecurities were doing a good enough job of holding her back before jealousy and self-loathing showed up on the scene, thank you very much.

Maybe it’s selfish, but she wishes Eames had stayed for her.  

It was a stupid idea anyway, putting the moves on Mal at a show with Jonathan Richman, patron saint of sad guitar boys everywhere.

Mal texts her:

Where have you gone?

Lonesome in here without you.

Ari sighs and shifts her weight to her good ankle, staring at her phone. She loves Jonathan, of course, but maybe she’ll leave his particular brand of wistful romance to Arthur, to Eames—and she’ll wait to _finally_ kiss Mal at [a fucking Shannon and the Clams show](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SN2wygv0O10).

 

 

**THIS LOVE THING, LET ME DO THIS RIGHT**

**San Francisco, 2017**

 

**Arthur**

One time Arthur told Mal that a person didn’t need a date at a Jonathan Richman show—that Jonathan was, you know, like _everyone’s_ date. That was back when Arthur was squarely in the middle of his post-Dom misanthropic phase and thought he’d rather live alone in the woods (well, okay, maybe in a well-lit loft space with a bunch of house plants) than ever date again. He’s less sure about the never dating part now, but going solo to a Jonathan show—yes, he still believes in the sanctity of that.

Besides, earlier that day, his usual date had bailed:

Sorry, love, I can’t tonight! I’m seeing Shannon and the Clams with Ari at Thee Parkside. We already have tickets. Give our love to Jonathan! Xx

So Arthur takes the train to the city by himself, listening to the new Slowdive album and reading _The Day of the Triffids_ —the only paperback on his bedside table small enough to fit into his coat pocket. He gets to the Make-Out Room right when the doors open and settles in to read at the bar, sipping seltzer and watching the venue fill up with eager fans.

Jonathan doesn’t keep them waiting. At eight o’clock sharp, he’s onstage introducing Tommy on the drums, then launching into a rendition of “Old World” that has everyone laughing. Arthur pockets his book and makes his way to the center of the crowd, as close to the stage as he can get without shouldering anyone. Silver streamers hanging from the high ceiling scatter confetti-bursts of light across the red room. Jonathan is wearing a worn button-up over a t-shirt featuring skeleton mermaids who hold hands beneath a starry sky. Arthur smiles as Jonathan gazes out at all of them, visibly moved by the crowd’s fondness. Arthur has the sense that he is living a good life, that he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

A few songs into the set, Arthur becomes aware of the man standing next to him. It’s one of the parts where Jonathan’s put down his guitar and is dancing, and everyone’s either clapping the beat or dancing too. Arthur, falling into the second group, lets himself move with an abandon particular to Jonathan shows. Elsewhere, he is still learning how to dance sober, but here, if Jonathan can shake his hips without feeling silly, Arthur can too. He must step left at the same time as his neighbor steps right. They knock into each other.

“Sorry,” the man murmurs in a pleasant accent.

They don’t look at each other because they’re both watching Jonathan. But Arthur feels hyper-aware now of this guy who’s brushing elbows with him, who answers Jonathan’s jokes with a low, rumbling laugh.

It happens again: dancing, they collide. This time Arthur’s drink sloshes onto the floor between their sneakers. Arthur looks over—and oh! It’s _him_. Eames.

When Mal told Arthur the story of the night they met, he had been so sure he couldn’t remember the stranger who held him while Mal chased Nash away.

“British, handsome, muscles like woah,” Ariadne said. “You’d remember him. You were all over him,” she had laughed.

“Sorry.” Arthur shrugged, irritated she’d evoked his messy, younger self. “It’s all a blank,” he insisted. All a blank except for Mal yelling, Mal’s arms wrapped around him in the back of a cab.

But now, Jonathan is singing _[this love thing, let me do this right](https://jonathanrichman.bandcamp.com/track/let-me-do-this-right), _ and Arthur remembers Eames—British, handsome, muscles like woah. Ridiculously pretty lips quirked in a half smile that lives mostly in his sharp, greenish eyes. He is wearing a patch-encumbered denim jacket, like the one Arthur owned years ago, over a tight shirt, and Arthur can see lines of ink twining up his neck, where—if Arthur’s remembering correctly—he once burrowed his face against Eames’s warm skin.

“Oh, damn. I’m sorry,” Eames says, gaze flicking over Arthur with interest. “Should I buy you another drink?”

“I don’t drink,” Arthur says. “It’s just water.”

Eames nods and seems ready to turn back toward Jonathan. Arthur could swear Eames remembers him too. So he says, “I know you. You’re Eames.”

“And you’re the infamous Arthur. Mal and Ari talk about you quite a lot. I thought you didn’t remember me.”

“I thought I didn’t, but it’s coming back.”

Eames smiles at him. By mutual agreement, they twist away from each other, back toward the stage.

 

**Eames**

Text message to Ari from Eames:

Shannon and the Clams? Does this mean what I think it means?? ;)

 

Text message to Eames from Ari:

SHUT UP

DON’T JINX IT

I will text you immediately if something happens. (skull emoticon)

well, maybe not immediately…

 

*

 

 _This love thing, let me do this right_ —it’s a song Eames hasn’t heard before, and it consists of this one line sung again and again in different Jonathan inflections. Jonathan’s career trajectory from playful, proto-punk frontman to performance artist is brilliant. If only Eames can continue to grow and change in such a way. A year ago, when he felt hopelessly _stuck,_ this thought would have been grim; today, it feels hopeful. He’s done with Robert for good, thank God. His sister’s alright, back on her feet, and Eames feels more connected to his family than he has in—well, maybe ever. It’s a tentative connection, but he thinks it’s real.

It feels good to be _home_ finally, back in the Bay after so much time in L.A. and London. Eames feels light, unencumbered, an echo of the feelings that buoyed his first year in San Francisco, his first times seeing Jonathan and all the Bay Area garage rock and punk acts he adored.

And how funny: his first week back, his first show, and he finds himself standing next to Arthur, the infamous Arthur. It’s strange holding two different Arthurs in his head—the sloppy guy he had helped out that night three years ago and the, by all accounts, close friend that has appeared in Ari and Mal’s stories ever since.

Eames watches Arthur out of the corner of his eye. He’s more handsome than Eames had remembered. More sure of himself. (Well, he’s standing on his own two feet this time. What did Eames expect?) Eames’s appreciation is heightened by the knowledge that Arthur has that warm, tactile person from the night they met inside him somewhere—and by the knowledge that Arthur has moved through crises to become confident, composed, sharp as anything in his crisp Oxford and deliciously-fitted jeans, sipping soda water and letting himself dance.

During the break, he asks, “Would you like to have a conversation with me?” When Arthur stares at him, he adds, “I could offer again to obtain you a fresh soda, perhaps with a fancy lemon twist, if you’d prefer me to be less forward.”

Arthur snorts. “Our best friends are probably making out right now at a punk show. I don’t think we need an excuse to get to know each other.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Eames practically shouts.

 

Arthur and Eames lean against the bar, fiddling with the lemon slices wedged onto the rims of their glasses.

“So, when did you first start listening to Jonathan?” Arthur wants to know.

Eames stumbled on “I’m Straight” and “Hospital” as a teen, can’t recall how. He thinks he downloaded them off LimeWire, ridiculously. Arthur’s first college boyfriend owned _The Modern Lovers_ on vinyl. “What do you like about Jonathan?” Eames wonders.

“How do I even explain?” Arthur spreads his hands in an overcome gesture, eyes alight. “You know when he’s not even singing, he’s just holding his guitar up and picking these shimmering, poignant notes, and he’s _gazing_ out at everyone like it’s a gift that we’re all here in the world together, sharing the same oxygen…?”

“Yes! I _know._ ” Eames leans forward, voice quickened with excitement. _“_ I know _exactly_ what you mean…”

 

After Jonathan, a DJ turns the Make-Out Room into a _reggaeton_ party. Eames and Arthur continue to get to know each other while dancing, then while grinding. Afterwards, they continue to get to know each other outside the bar.

Eames’s phone buzzes in the back pocket of his jeans. Arthur’s does too. Eames can feel it because he happens to be grabbing Arthur’s arse.

“I should— _ah_ —I should get that,” Arthur gasps, pulling back from their kiss.

“Right, yeah, me too.”

They look down at their screens and then back at each other, wet lips parted in what Eames bets are mirror images of surprise.

“Oh my God,” Arthur says.

“Did you just get—? Did Mal just—?”

Arthur nods.

Eames looks down at the message again. “I can’t believe it finally happened.” Then he shakes himself and whoops loudly, which makes Arthur startle back from him and, adorably, kind of giggle. “This is _amazing_!”

The bouncer and the hot dog guy both stare. Arthur pulls Eames back into the shadow of the doorway and kisses him again.

“This calls for celebration, darling,” Eames insists against Arthur’s swollen mouth.

Arthur kisses him harder. “This is me celebrating. What did _you_ have in mind?”

 

An hour and a half later, they are naked on the floor of Eames’s living room, listening to _Rockin’ and Romance_. Eames is kinda stoned and completely fucked to pieces.

“Are you _crying_?” Arthur asks, peeling himself from the rug and flopping across Eames’s sweaty chest. He begins to lick Eames’s tattoos.

Eames smears several errant tears across stubble with the back of his hand. “Fuck yeah I am.” He gives Arthur a crooked grin. “I love this song, and I’m just so happy right now.”

 

**Ariadne**

Text from Ariadne to Eames:

!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!

 

**Mal**

Text from Mal to Arthur:

Oh my god, darling,

She kissed me!!

!!!

 

Text from Arthur to Mal:

Yes!!! Finally!!

(a litany of ecstatic emoticons)

Meet up for coffee tomorrow?

I have a crazy story about tonight too…

 

 

**ENCORE!**

**Oakland, 2017**

 

**Arthur**

“No,” Arthur groans, tilting his head back until he can feel Eames’s stubble against his cheek. “Eames. You have to flip the record. We’ve listened to this side _three times already._ Eames. Are you still crying?”

“Am not!” Eames says, tightening his arms around Arthur’s waist. He sings into Arthur’s ear, his voice low, wonderful, and off-tune, “ _It’s better than before. Oh, now is better than before_.”

Then, from the feel of it, he’s burying his face in Arthur’s hair. Arthur’s hand reaches up to stroke the curve of his ear, trace the line of his jaw. It’s this whole new, roaring outlet for his addictive personality, Arthur thinks. In the two months they’ve been dating, Arthur has given up trying to keep his hands to himself; he can’t keep from touching Eames.

Eames doesn’t seem to mind. He looks at Arthur the way he looks at Jonathan—with wonder—and also with something more, something exclusively Arthur’s. Something along the lines of _I’m going to fuck you incoherent and kiss you everywhere until your whole body tingles._

“Hold him there, Arthur! I’ll change the record!”

“Hold him?” Arthur laughs. “He’s holding me.”

Ari scrambles up from where she’s sprawled atop Mal on the rug and makes a dash for the record player.

The four of them have been lounging on the floor of Eames’s living room all through the rainy afternoon. Eames and Ari share a joint, and Ari and Mal make out. They all listen to records, eat pizza, and lazily construct a zine out of torn up magazines and improvised poetry. (Ari and Arthur come up with bad haikus, Eames with filthy limericks, of course. Mal is saving her genius for band practice later, but she agrees to draw the cover image with a Sharpie.)

Arthur finds himself dumped unceremoniously from Eames’s lap onto Mal as Eames staggers up to intercept Ari. “You can’t change the record in the middle of the song!” he protests.

“That’s what you said the last two times!”

Mal throws an arm around Arthur. “Eames,” she says. “You promised we could listen to _my_ favorite track.”

“Come on, come on,” Ari says. “The big reveal. Don’t you want to know?” She’s snatched _Rockin’ and Romance_ off the player, and she and Eames have a standoff with the couch in between them.

“Alright,” Eames says, throwing up his hands and reclaiming his seat. “Go ahead, put it on.”

“But Ari doesn’t know it,” Mal says. “It’s my secret. Which I shall now magnanimously share with you all.”

They wait while Mal digs through the record box.

She studies the secret album’s track list, then places the needle, and the song begins with an obnoxious droning buzz. It’s—well, damn, it’s [the mosquito song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qfr8qoFwZjk).

_Well now, little mosquito, is there not_

_Some beauty in you that I simply can't spot_

_Well there is, well you're right, sir!_

“Really? _This_ song? Of all his songs?” Eames doesn’t even sound surprised; he sounds forlorn, like he somehow failed Mal in her introduction to Jonathan. Ari is cracking up, collapsed next to Arthur on the rug.

“What? It’s so cute,” Mal says. “Oh, I see how it is.” She points at them accusingly. “You’re all snobs. Snobs and fake fans!”

Arthur rolls onto his back and laughs and laughs.

Arthur’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this adorable crew. (Maybe he was a maligned mosquito in a past life.) But he knows he’s lucky; he feels his good fortune like a physical pain in his chest. He is living a charmed life, he is exactly where he is supposed to be—

tears of mirth on his face,

Ari cackling by his side,

Mal fake-glowering at them while she sings along to the mosquito song,

and Eames holding his hand,

Eames pressing a kiss against his palm.

 

_Oh, now is better than before—_

**Author's Note:**

> More detailed trigger warning for themes of/mention of date sexual assault: A character is pressured by his date to get drunk at a bar. Later, a third character describes to fourth how she saw the date pressure the first character to make out with him and leave with him in a car. This character describes intervening in the situation.


End file.
